


Between a Rock and a Hard Place

by DeHeerKonijn, Roselightfairy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Assisted Masturbation, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Toys, explicit images, text and images
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/pseuds/DeHeerKonijn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: In response to a prompt for Gigolas Fuckfest 2020. On a whim (and against his better judgment), Gimli brought a selection of sex toys along with him to Rivendell, not expecting to travel much farther than that. Of course, his inclusion in the Fellowship of the Ring complicates matters. Faced with a variety of undesirable options, the only thing he can do is carry them along with him on the journey.. . . Matters are further complicated when he falls in love with one of his companions along the way.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 62
Kudos: 369
Collections: Gigolas FuckFest 2020





	Between a Rock and a Hard Place

**Author's Note:**

> For Gigolas Fuckfest 2020.
> 
> Prompt: Gimli brought some toys along to Rivendell to keep himself entertained and they ended up coming along on the quest. Poor innocent Legolas is confused when he finds an odd sort of baton in Gimli’s bag. Gimli offers to demonstrate.

I

This, Gimli thought gloomily, staring down at the bed he had been given in Rivendell, was a quandary he had not anticipated.

He had been grateful all the days of their stay here that he and his father had been given separate rooms - but perhaps never so much as now. The door was shut between them, his father was occupied visiting Bilbo Baggins, and he was assured as much privacy as he would possibly have to gaze down at the objects he had emptied at last from their discreet pouch and tumbled over the bedcovers in a lavish cornucopia of excess.

Four of them - different colors, shapes, and sizes, but all unmistakably phallic, and their purpose was obvious to all who could recognize them. Toys for self-gratification, all carefully chosen from Gimli’s supply at home and carried at the bottom of his bag from Erebor.

Yes, perhaps he ought not to have brought so many, but - how was he to have expected this? After all he had heard of Rivendell from his father and his companions (pleasant enough, but rather dull; populated with elves of great wisdom and the great desire to share it with all who would listen; evenings of interminable song and dance) he had thought surely he would need _something_ to entertain himself in the evenings. And even if not, surely it would do no harm at least to bring them.

That logic did not seem so unassailable now, as he prepared to pack what he would need for a quest through foreign lands, which would take him through who knew what dangers - and in which he would surely have scarce time or privacy for such indulgences. The four toys on the bed seemed to gaze accusingly up at him, as though mocking his past decisions.

But the decision was made and they were here, so it was no good dwelling on his folly. He could only decide what to do with them now.

He could not leave them in Rivendell; that much was plain. Who knew if he would ever pass this way again - and anyway, for all their touted wisdom he did not trust these elves not to peek inside any bags he abandoned, or worse. He had heard the words “tra-la-la-lally” enough in tales to know of the elvish penchant for mischief.

Well, if he could not leave them here, what were his other options? He let his gaze flicker to the side, at the small pile he was preparing to send back to Erebor with his father. This would be the safest option for the toys themselves, doubtless, but Gimli could not consider it for more than an instant before his entire being shied away from the thought. If he feared the elves might look in his package, he _knew_ Glóin would, and his father would never let such a thing go. Worse, he would know far more about Gimli’s preferences and tendencies than Gimli had ever wished to share with him - and he might tell his _mother_ , as well - 

Gimli shuddered. That did not bear even thinking. No, they would _not_ accompany Glóin home.

That left two choices: bring them with him or destroy them.

He looked them over one by one, trying to decide if he could bear to part with any of them. Again, he needn't have brought so many - and yet as he handled each one, his justification for packing it rose up within him once more.

The first, a nicely-shaped (and well-worn, by now) thing of polished marble, had always been his favorite. It could be trusted to bring him to climax, whatever the situation and whatever his mood - and he had thought he might well need it, given the dismal nature of their errand. It was at very least a comfort to have on hand, and he would bring this along without question if it were the only one. Certainly he could not destroy it; he might never find another that brought him as much pleasure.

The second was the only one in his collection that still had the power to make Gimli blush. He had spent far too much gold on it years ago, when he had first come into money of his own, flush with the feeling of success - polished amethyst, mithril inlaid. It was not even his favorite of the array, but any dwarf who saw it would know at a glance how much he had paid for it - and he could not bear the thought of leaving it alone where his mother might come across it. For this reason, too, he could not trust it to anyone but himself - it was a matter of pride - and destroying it was out of the question.

The third - well, distant now from the mood he had been in while packing, he knew his decision to bring this was absurd. It was made of tempered glass, with ribbing along the edges for a very particular sensation. He did not always crave this toy, so he could not have brought it along as the only one, but when he did, nothing else would suffice so well - and he had slipped it into the bag along with the rest without questioning the decision as much as he now realized he should have.

The final he had little attachment to, in truth - it was a simple plug, one he had brought along on a whim, remembering his father’s words of long evenings filled with song and poetry that took hours to recite and was difficult to understand. He had often used this plug for meetings in which nothing of substance would be discussed, as a way of entertaining himself in secret - or at least making the end of the meeting that much more of a relief. Indeed, he had considered wearing it even to this council, and was now glad he had discarded the idea; the thought of attempting to conceal his discomfort as the tales grew graver and graver did not bear thinking of.

This one he might discard, if he must, but there was still the matter of discretion, which could not be guaranteed. And if he had decided that none of the others could be sacrificed, there was no use in destroying or discarding this one.

Well, that was that - there was nothing else for it. Gimli carefully rewrapped each toy and nestled them back into their discreet bag, to be tucked back into the very bottom of his pack. They would be coming with him.

II

As it happened, the toys remained just where Gimli had stashed them for all the long weeks of their journey. He thought of them most longingly on those long days and nights that they trudged through the barren hills and valleys of Eriador, shielding themselves from the icy wind and staving off the bleakness of despair with what conversation they could - but even if he had been willing to abandon his companions during a rest to use them, there was no time or privacy to do so. But as time went on, they slipped as far to the back of his mind as they had to his pack - as they weathered the fierce winds and cruel snows of Caradhras; bore witness to the darkened halls of once-great Khazad-dûm . . .

And now they had come through peril and horror, one companion short and burdened by grief, to the golden wood of Lothlórien, and Gimli sat with the rest of his companions, heavy-limbed and heavy-hearted, watching evening fade into night and listening to the strains of elvish song filter into the air from some distance away.

Loath as he had been to enter this wood, he was forced to admit that there was a wholesomeness to this place, a soothing feeling of peace in the air that tickled at the edges of his troubled soul like the first shafts of sunlight into a newly-delved cavern. It seemed to urge him to thoughts of comfort, for all he had no desire to be comforted, just like the gentle words its lady had spoken to Gimli, like all the compassion and kindness in her voice . . .

He might have even laughed bitterly at the thought of it - imagine a dwarf being succored in grief by an elf! But that sorrow still weighed heavily upon him, in ways no woodland magic - or kind words, however fair-spoken - could ease.

Though they did not speak of it, it seemed his companions felt the same. They sat ranged about the small clearing where they had been given flets: some in hushed conversations of their own, others unspeaking, all exhausted and dismayed. Most had already changed into sleep clothing, Gimli included, leaving his armor off for the first time since Rivendell. Legolas alone was nowhere to be seen, and Gimli was glad of that - let him go find his way among these elves who had been so eager to extend him every courtesy, and let him make no haste to return.

For it was not only the Lady Galadriel who had stirred Gimli’s thoughts into a lather of confusion. She had offered him grace where Legolas had abandoned him to the mercy of these elves and their unjust laws; she was fair-spoken as Legolas was not, and yet - 

And yet not so much more fair.

All elves looked alike, Gimli had always thought, and yet more than once in their journey before now he had found his eyes straying where they should not: to deft fingers balancing arrows and hard-muscled arms drawing a bowstring taut; to the sway of narrow hips and dancing of light feet over snow and grass alike. And before now, before this egregious betrayal of trust, Gimli had even found himself wondering if the elf were not so bad as he had thought. Even in Moria - 

Even in Moria.

Gimli shuddered at the reminder of the echoing emptiness of his people’s grandest home, at the desecration wrought by creatures of fire and ruin, at the reminder of tombs and bones and Gandalf’s final words - and the tingling memory of strong, slim fingers wrapped around his wrist.

Oh, it was too much. It was all too much; he could not face it. He tensed against a grunt of confusion and dismay, and bent over his pack in an effort to conceal his face from his companions. It could do with rearranging, anyway. But even as he groped about aimlessly, his fingers stumbled into a small lump in the very bottom - the package he had nearly forgotten.

The reminder was enough to shake him free of his stupor for a moment as an unforeseen possibility presented itself.

When he had packed these, he had not _truly_ thought to use them, however longingly he had thought of them on those bleak early days. He had not imagined they would ever be in a place of safety enough to leave his companions to seek the privacy needed for such a venture. But if Aragorn’s and the Lady’s words were to be trusted, these woods were safe enough - and surely the Fellowship would not suffer now for the lack of his company.

He could not speak to them, after all, of what he - what _they_ \- had lost, and he could not even bring himself to think about any of the other worries preying upon his mind. Companionship would break him; solitude would only send him spiraling deeper into his own maudlin thoughts - no. What he needed now . . . was _distraction._

Inside his pack, his hand closed around the bag.

Gimli knelt for some time on the leaf-littered grass of Lothlórien, struggling to catch his breath and re-orienting himself to the reality around him. It had been long since he had brought himself to such a climax, and it was a moment before he returned to full consciousness that he was kneeling in a forest, one hand still clutching the base of the toy he had not yet removed from his body - and that he was alone.

Alone . . .

The winter air was cool on Gimli’s overheated skin; he shivered even as he drew the toy carefully forth from within him, easing it free of the relaxed muscles. _Alone_ . . . Only now that it had passed was he aware of the power of that fantasy, how much it had consumed him - and how inexpressibly _wrong_ it was. Legolas - _Legolas!_ His most infuriating travel companion; the elf who had proven the treachery of Thranduil’s people of which Glóin had warned Gimli, who had been willing to let Gimli walk blind alone among these hostile elves. And yes, his thoughts might have strayed, but only a time or two, nothing like - 

Nothing like this! How long had that fantasy been lurking within him, waiting for a chance of full expression? Had it been building slowly all those long nights they traveled, all those chilly middays Gimli lay bundled in his bedroll, trying to sleep despite the icy bite of the wind? How long had he thought - how long had he wanted - that?

Suddenly, Gimli became aware that he was still kneeling bare to the waist in the midst of a forest inhabited by elves. He wiped his hands clean on the leaves and drew up his sleep pants as swiftly as he could with the languid soreness of his muscles, which did not quite obey the urgency of his thoughts. When he was safely covered, he pulled out the cleaning liquid he had brought along with his toys - which he had thought he might as well carry with him, so long as he meant to bring the toys themselves - to wipe this one down.

It was only a fantasy, after all, he reminded himself firmly, wrapping the toy back up and stowing it away, pushing down the traitorous thoughts that whispered, _but was it?_ It meant nothing - it needed to mean nothing. His thoughts were stronger than his body, after all, even if his body did want - well.

He pushed himself to his feet, everything tucked safely away, and glanced around him uneasily. This interlude had brought him distraction after all, even if not quite the kind he had sought - and he could only hope that the small glade he had found was as private as it seemed. Clutching the bag in one hand, still wrangling at his traitorous thoughts, he turned back in the direction he had come. Surely his companions would be sleeping by now. Surely he would not have to answer to them.

He had followed a small creek for most of his way, and he let out a sigh of relief when he found it again. Not only because he now knew he could find his way back, but also so he could kneel to rinse his hands in the running water.

But scarcely had he straightened up, dried his hands on his clothing, and picked up his pouch again when he heard a voice - a _far-too-familiar_ voice, as though drawn straight from his fantasy. “Gimli?”

“Legolas?” he almost yelped, his head darting back and forth in search of the elf. Frantically he tried to calculate the distance he had come from his spot - had Legolas been there? Had he seen it all? Had Gimli - what if Gimli had said his name?

The elf emerged from the trees in front of him, seeming to materialize out of the night itself. “It _is_ you,” he said. “I have been looking for you.”

Gimli could hardly remember to be angry, so concerned was he with concealing his recent activities. His hand twitched as though to hide the pouch behind his back, and he only just realized in time that that would look even more suspicious. He studied Legolas’s face, trying to find any clues as to what he might have heard, but could not read its expression.

At last, though, the sense of the elf’s words sank back in on him, and a spark of irritation flickered back to life. “Why were you looking for me?” he said. “Have I violated another rule of this place merely by existing?” The words might be a test, too - did the elves here have rules against self-pleasure in their woods? He would not be surprised if that were the case.

Legolas flushed, so faintly anyone without Gimli’s sharp night vision would have missed it. “No, no I - it was about that that I wished to speak. I” - 

“Well, what have I done now?” said Gimli. “Out with it, if you would speak.” They had best have it out, if it could not be avoided.

“No, that is not - that is not what I mean.” He took a cautious step towards Gimli, but every muscle in his body seemed taut with tension, with restrained motion. “I wanted to say - I should not have neglected to tell you about the blindfolding. It was wrong.”

“It was” - Gimli almost dropped the pouch, so disarmed was he by Legolas’s words. That he had come to apologize - perhaps he had not heard Gimli after all, and had sought him for a different reason entirely. But then he registered what Legolas had said and frowned at him again. “You should not have neglected to tell me, you say. What of the blindfolding in the first place? Do you not regret not arguing for me?”

“I did, at first,” Legolas said earnestly, “though I could not blame you for disbelieving me. I told Haldir that you were a true and stalwart companion and that we would have been lost many times but for the strength of your arm.” His flush deepened, and he looked down instead of meeting Gimli’s eyes. “He would not have let you in at all, and I promised to answer personally for the decision - but I could not convince him not to bind your eyes. Perhaps someone more skilled in words could have done so, and for that I beg your pardon.”

“You . . .” Gimli blinked, shaken by these words. “And so you came looking for me . . . to apologize? I thought you were among your kin.” He had imagined Legolas laughing with the Lothlórien elves about the hapless dwarf they had shamed - but now, clearer-eyed, he could admit that even that did not seem like something Legolas would do.

“No,” said Legolas. “I had need of thought alone at first, and then I wished to find you. Gimli, I would - I have been thinking of Gandalf’s words near constantly since his fall, and I regret what has passed between us. I would be your friend, if you would have me.” He drew a breath as if to say something else, but then shook his head and fell silent.

This hesitance, this stammering overture - it was different from the smooth voice of Legolas in his fantasies, different from the confident certainty Gimli had imagined. But it was more endearing, suddenly, more real.

“I too tire of this enmity,” said Gimli. “I do not want to be at odds with you.” It was true, suddenly - the thought of nursing a grudge against Legolas, even in the face of his attempt to apologize and his own bewildering thoughts, seemed suddenly too exhausting to be borne. “Very well, I will give you my pardon - and you too walked blindfolded, so I suppose we are even in the end.”

“You forgive so easily!” whispered Legolas. “It shames me still further - and yet I am so relieved to hear it.” He extended a hand, long and pale and almost glowing in the moonlight. “Shall we take hands and be friends, then, Gimli?”

Gimli laughed, wondering at the relief he felt - the easing of the heavy pressure that had driven him away from his companions in the first place. “Yes,” he said - but even as he extended his hand, he realized that he still held his pouch. Heat rushed into his cheeks, and he tucked it hastily into the single pocket of his sleep pants. It did not quite fit, bulging beneath the light fabric, but at least it was no longer in his hand. He reached out now, glad he had cleaned himself before this encounter, and Legolas’s graceful fingers wrapped around the heel of his hand.

Legolas’s eyes followed the pouch with interest even as he took Gimli’s hand, his own slender where Gimli’s was broad but equally strong, calluses against calluses. “You have held that since I found you,” he remarked. “I noted it before. What is inside?”

“Never mind,” said Gimli gruffly, hoping the night hid his flush from Legolas’s eyes better than it would from a dwarf’s.

“We are friends now, but still I may not ask?” said Legolas playfully.

“No,” said Gimli - then, noting that Legolas had yet to let go his hand, amended daringly, “Not yet.” Perhaps someday - but no, he would not rush the crafting of this thing, whatever it was, but allow it to take shape in its own time. “Some secrets, at least, I must keep for myself.”

III

Gimli frowned down at the leather strap he was stitching, struggling one last time to work the awl through the two pieces. The end had grown dull over time, though, and it seemed to have outlived its usefulness - however he wriggled it, he could not pierce the leather.

“Legolas,” he called, letting it fall to the table and keeping the leather pressed firmly between his thumb and forefinger.

The strains of viol music in the parlor stopped - one of the benefits of elven companionship was that Gimli had not even needed to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of Legolas’s playing. They had the house in Minas Tirith to themselves for once, with Gandalf away on business with Aragorn and the four hobbits amusing themselves in the marketplace, and it seemed Legolas was taking full advantage of the opportunity to play without disturbing anyone.

Gimli felt a pang of regret for interrupting him, but that dissipated when Legolas emerged from the other room with his brightest smile, the one that without fail drew a responding smile from Gimli. “What do you need?”

“My awl has gone dull,” Gimli said. “There is a spare in my pack, up in our room. It should be in a small leather pouch with other tools. Will you fetch it for me? I would, but I need to hold this.”

“Of course.” Legolas took a detour on his way to the stairs, though, stopping beside Gimli to tug lightly at the promise braid Gimli had taught him how to weave in Ithilien, in those days after the final battle. “Your wish is my command.”

Gimli chuckled fondly and turned to watch him scamper off towards the stairs, relishing in the fact that he could now openly admire the view. They had done little more than kiss since they had declared their hearts to one another; Legolas had explained that for elves the conjugal act was one of marriage, and so much of his body remained a mystery Gimli must wait to explore - but that did not mean he could not appreciate the sight of it.

Legolas was longer in fetching the awl than Gimli had expected. He had just begun to wonder if he ought to find something to replace his hold and go aid the search when he heard light footsteps on the stairs and Legolas returned, a strange expression on his face.

“Here is the awl,” he said, but did not pass it over yet. “And - I hope I do not overstep, but while I was seeking it I also found this.” He held something up, and Gimli almost started at the sight of the pouch containing his toys. They had received rather more use in recent weeks, since their journey had ended and their lives were no longer driven by urgency and distress - and since he and Legolas had agreed upon their betrothal - but he had forgotten that they were in the same pocket as the tools. “You told me some time ago that its contents were a secret, one I was not to know about yet.” He came up behind Gimli now, pressing the awl into his free hand and his lips to the spot between Gimli’s cheek and ear. “Are they still a secret?”

A spark of heat flickered in Gimli’s belly, warming him up through his face and ears. Legolas clearly felt the temperature of his skin change - he pulled back, startled, then laughed. “Well, now I am more curious still,” he said playfully.

Gimli knew that nothing could be done with them yet - not if Legolas was not ready for marriage, as he had confessed. But still, even the thought of sharing them with him was enough to stir Gimli, and he pressed his thighs together. “No,” he said slowly. “They do not have to be. Let me just finish this” - he gestured at his project - “and we will go up to our bedroom together, and then I will show you.”

Legolas did not return to his viol after that; he moved to the chair beside Gimli instead, sitting so close that Gimli could feel his breath and inhale his scent of leaves and leather and fresh water. He finished his work as quickly as he could - and surely with less skill than it deserved - and then took Legolas by the hand, leaving the leather behind, and led him back up the stairs.

“You are so serious about this!” said Legolas when Gimli had closed the bedroom door behind him. “Almost you make me regret asking!”

“No, no,” Gimli assured him. “It is nothing to regret; it is only - well. Our friends have said they will be gone all day, but still I would rather not display these out in the open. It was an accident that I brought them along, anyway; I would rather they stay my business. Or, our business, now.” And he pulled the drawstring on the pouch and spilled the toys out over his bed.

Legolas’s mouth and eyes went round as he watched them roll out onto the cloth they had been wrapped in, and his hand wandered towards them as if asking for permission. Gimli nodded - yes, you may touch. Legolas picked up the amethyst rod first, turning it over and over and gazing at the inlay of mithril. “It is so smooth,” he said, running his fingers over it. “But this one is not,” setting it aside and picking up the tempered glass baton with the ribbing. He let his fingers roam over each toy, and then at last looked up at Gimli. “What are they?”

Gimli laughed at his face - so innocent, but then, of course it would be. “They are for self-pleasure,” he explained. “For those who prefer not to use their hands, or who desire more stimulation than fingers can bring. You know” - They had discussed these things only in the most basic terms. “You know of how the sexual act is accomplished between two males?”

“I do.” Legolas’s brow creased faintly. “So this . . . goes . . . ?” He flushed and did not finish.

“Yes,” Gimli said. “It is a good substitute, if one is alone - or sometimes partners will experiment together.” He cleared his throat, shy suddenly, though he was not ashamed of the subject. “If you are not comfortable talking about this” - 

“No,” Legolas assured him, “no, I do not mind it, only” - He was turning the amethyst toy over and over again in his hands and staring down at it, not meeting Gimli’s eyes. “You know that my knowledge of all of this comes only from what I have been told, and elves’ bodies awaken very slowly when their hearts first come to love. So I must confess that despite all I have been told, I find it hard to imagine . . .” He trailed off, still looking down, and then his gaze darted up to meet Gimli’s. “You enjoy this?” he blurted, and then clamped his lips together.

“Ah.” Gimli reached out and caught his hand, wrapping his fingers around Legolas’s where they still held the toy. He had not thought of this - but of course, when described clinically, the mechanics of these acts often did not sound pleasurable at all. “I assure you that I do,” he said. “Different people have different preferences, in the end, but this act is one that brings me great pleasure. And I look forward to learning together what you love, what brings you the most satisfaction.” He leaned further forward to press their foreheads together, and Legolas’s face tilted close to his. “But I assure you that I will wait as long as you need for that to happen.”

“I know,” said Legolas, and their faces were so close at that point that it was only natural to melt their mouths together, long and sweet. But when they pulled back from the kiss, Legolas’s hands were still wandering among Gimli’s toys: tracing the designs of the mithril in the amethyst rod, the ribbing of the glass baton. “But I wonder . . .”

“What do you wonder?” Gimli could not keep from staring at Legolas’s fingers, wondering how that tentative touch would feel, how they would move over his own - oh. He felt himself stir again, and shifted in an attempt to hide it.

But Legolas did not miss the motion: his gaze moved from his own hand to the apex of Gimli’s thighs. “You know that my heart yearns for you,” he said slowly, “for all that my body lags behind.”

“I know that,” Gimli said. He made no more attempt to hide his arousal; it was not discomfort he could see in Legolas’s eyes, but curiosity and interest. He did not understand the direction of Legolas’s thoughts, but they had spoken openly about this in the past, and this need not be any different.

“My body does not know how to want yours, not yet,” said Legolas, each word still slow and deliberate as the tap of a hammer, as though feeling his way into what he wished to say. “But I know that you want me.” He smiled then, a little shy and a little playful at the same time, another pulse of heat between Gimli’s legs. “I do not understand the pleasure you speak of,” he continued. “But I believe you when you say that you enjoy it. And I think perhaps” - He broke off with a nervous laugh.

“Perhaps what?” Gimli said. “Nothing you might say is forbidden here.”

“Perhaps . . .” Legolas’s voice was tentative now; he rolled the plug between both hands before setting it down to trace the ribbing on the glass baton again. “Perhaps it would aid me to see it.”

“See it?” Gimli did not know what he had expected, but it was not this. “Do you mean” - 

“These,” Legolas said. “I would see what your pleasure looks like when you use them. Will you show me?”

Oh - but Gimli was decidedly aroused now, his breeches too tight at the hope in Legolas’s voice, the gleam in those eyes, and those long, deft fingers still moving over his toys. His hand drifted down to his thigh almost without his awareness, and he bit back a moan at the thought. “You are sure?” he said.

“Yes,” said Legolas, his cheeks stained red, his eyes bright. “I should like very much to see.”

“Well,” Gimli said, blood rushing down so fast that he was surprised he could even form a coherent thought. He glanced up at the door, closed between them and the rest of the house, and smiled. “The others are still at the marketplace, after all,” he said thoughtfully. “And who knows when we will next have the house to ourselves?”

“Yes, then?” said Legolas, a little breathless. Gimli had never received such a request before - had certainly not expected it from Legolas - but he could not doubt Legolas’s earnest voice or the sparkle in his eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “I will show you anything you wish to see.”

Gimli sighed happily, his limbs heavy in the wake of climax, but he retained strength enough to sling his arms around Legolas and tug him close. The elf sprawled on top of him, his still-clad legs tangling with Gimli’s bare ones but the skin of his chest warm against Gimli’s own. He was nowhere near as heavy-limbed as Gimli - his body fairly thrummed with that energy and _aliveness_ that always radiated from him, his eyes still bright with love and interest - but he lay passive for now, letting Gimli run his hands through his silken hair and up and down his long back.

“Well,” Gimli said at last. “Did you learn what you had hoped for?”

“Hardly,” Legolas murmured, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “I think I will need many, many more lessons before I am fully satisfied.”

Gimli chuckled drowsily. “You are as eager a pupil as any could hope for,” he said. “I hope you will find me an apt enough teacher!”

“Indeed,” said Legolas, “no other could satisfy me so well.” He brushed a finger down Gimli’s nose, then leaned in for a kiss, and Gimli obliged him gladly, pulling his betrothed close and letting himself dissolve into the sweetness of the moment.

Below, he could hear the faint sounds of their housemates returning home - the door opening, followed by laughter and chatter and the sounds of bags being set down and chairs pulled out. They ought to go down to join them, to greet them and ask how they had fared at the market - but Gimli felt no desire to move and disrupt the languid contentment of their stolen moment of privacy.

But against him, Legolas moved slightly - the tiniest start, but along with a sound like a snort of suppressed laughter.

“What?” said Gimli. Had Legolas overheard something their companions had said downstairs? “What is so amusing?”

“You said . . .” Legolas paused and pressed his lips together, but the smile broke free anyway, irrepressible. His eyes were sparkling. “You said you did not wish to display these before the others.”

Gimli raised his eyebrows. “I did.”

“And I only just realized,” Legolas continued, gesturing to where the other toys were still scattered over the bed - their positions disturbed by their motions, but all still in view. “I saw you with these in Lothlórien.”

“So you did,” said Gimli slowly - and now he could see why Legolas was laughing. The questions about his desire for privacy - the observation of what he had noticed - He had the sinking suspicion that he knew where Legolas’s questions were leading.

“I did,” said Legolas. “So” - He broke out into laughter, his attempts to suppress it apparently now abandoned. “You have had these with you since before Rivendell.”

Gimli shoved him lightly, though not enough to roll him away. “I had thought that was self-evident.”

“Oh, it is,” said Legolas. His grin turned wicked and he curled up closer to Gimli, nose to nose. “Still - the thought of what these poor toys have seen, tucked away in your pack through all our trials” - 

“And yet,” said Gimli, “carrying them into Mordor itself was preferable to leaving them at Elrond’s house. Besides,” and he hooked an arm around Legolas’s shoulders even while the elf shook with another fit of giggling, “is it not to our advantage that I have them now?”

Legolas chuckled again at that, but subsided, letting Gimli pull him more firmly on top of him and tucking his head against Gimli’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose it is.” 


End file.
